Shadow on the Sand
by Trent Roman
Summary: Mulder and Scully investigate possible Chupacabra attacks in Southern Texas. For Zero.


Disclaimer: Right then, I don't own the X-Files, nor do I own the characters of Mulder, Scully and Skinner. They belong to Chris Carter and FOX. I just 'borrowed' them from my T.V. set to have them run around in my little rat maze. This following story takes place mostly in southern Texas. Since I have never been in southern Texas [hell, I've never been any farther than Newfoundland], I had to rely on outside sources, and thus a few mistakes and/or stereotypes might have slipped in. Also note that Spanish is a third language, so there might be a few mistakes there as well. For these factors I apologize. I drop clues to the ending throughout the story, so if you feel up to it, try and guess what happens. But I also drop false clues, so be careful in your quest for the truth J.

# Shadow on the Sand

## Trent Roman

For Scully, everything was darkness. She floated in a void that knew neither substance nor form, where time was irrelevant. The only other thing in the vacuum with her was a sound, high-pitched and repetitive, never ceasing. Scully floated towards the sound, somehow swimming in the nothingness, knowing only that the sound was important. As she somehow neared it's source, a pinpoint of light appeared before her eyes. As Scully drifted towards her, the light grew wider and wider. Soon she could see that it was not just one light but many, emerging from several shapes that danced inside her field of vision. Concentrating hard, she focused on what appeared to be the main shape. Slowly, with effort, the shape coalesced to form…

…her bedroom ceiling. Scully blinked back sleep with confusion, staring at the ceiling as if it were a foreign object that had somehow slipped it's way into the architecture of her apartment without her noticing. Finally, she realized that about the ceiling seemed different: the lighting. It was all wrong for this time of day. The shadows were too short.

The same buzzing sound from her dream rang in her ears. Annoyed, Scully shifted position in her bed, and looked towards the source of the sound. Staring at the red digital numbers on the small box or her alarm clock, she realized why the shadows on the ceiling had looked wrong. It was 10:30, which meant she was almost two hours late for work already. Cursing, Scully sprang from her bed, only to get her feet tangled in a shirt which, after working herself to exhaustion on filing late last night, she had just let drop on the floor. She tried to brace her fall with her hands, but they refused to respond fully, and Scully landed on the side of her face.

Scully lied on the cold floor, face barely a few centimeters away from a pair of old gym socks that she also hadn't put away, wearing her nightgown, feet tied up in a shirt, two hours late for work and her alarm clock beeping away at her. She moaned in a low voice, thinking that this day was not off to a good start.

* * *

FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON D.C.

11:05 A.M.

Fortunately for her (and for anybody else around her, considering her mood), no one she passed in the large and somewhat drab FBI building in Washington commented on the lateness of her arrival. The guard at the desk, perhaps sensing Scully's underlying irritation and frustration, passed her the sign-in forms without so much as a raised eyebrow or the ghost of a smile. After scrawling in her name, Scully moved towards the elevators in the lobby, arriving just in time to have one close right in her face.

She jabbed the button violently and repeatedly, as if it were somehow to blame for her lousy morning (_almost afternoon, she though) up to now. She drummed her hands impatiently on the false wooden frame of the elevator doors, and was relieved to have one open up devoid of other people. The last thing she wanted to do was put on a smile and pretend to be at least sociable for some stranger's benefit._

The elevator disgorged her in the basement, where the walls were actually less than colorless because the years had faded away their non-color. The lighting was low, the corridor cramped, and the sound of others typing away at their computers in other basement offices seemed oddly loud that morning.

She turned into her office where her partner, Special Agent Fox "Spooky" Mulder, was bent behind his desk, rummaging in the bottom drawer in his extensive filing cabinet. Scully cleared her throat, and Mulder, not bothering to look up, said:

"Oh, Scully, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if you had been abducted."

Scully made a wry face, and placed her affairs on a chair next to Mulder's desk, wondering (and not for the first time) when she would get a desk of her own. Hell, considering all the loose paperwork spread out on Mulder's desk (not to mention the odd piece of pizza or doughnut), Mulder needed another desk, too.

Mulder rose from the behind his desk, and Scully noticed with amazement that he was wearing a large, white cowboy hat, folded in the middle with a large rim (nicked in one corner, of course). Mulder noticed her stare, a smiled faintly. 

"Do you like it?"

"Mulder, I've had the morning out of hell. I am in no mood to play dress-up."

"Well, ya know what they say, pardner," Mulder said in a poor imitation of a south-western accent, "If ya fall outta the saddle the best thang tah do is tah get right back in it again."

Scully knew from previous experience what this attempt at character acting, complete with paraphernalia, meant.

"Mulder, no. I don't feel like doing any traveling today."

"Oh, come on Scully," Mulder said, dropping the pretense of the accent. "Where's your frontier spirit?"

"I must have left it on the side of my bed," Scully answered flatly.

"There was a report filed recently," Mulder started, leafing through pages in his thick file folder, "concerning a series of rather odd cattle deaths. The cattle were found exsanguinated, not a drop of blood in them. But the weird thing is that, except for two small puncture holes, there are no marks on the cattle, and no traces of anything that might have been around it."

Scully waited with arms folded for Mulder to get to the point.

"Tell me, Scully… have you ever heard of the Chupacabra?"

"Mulder. Don't we have better things to do than go running around Puerto Rico looking for a crossbreed between a vampire and a little gray alien that suck goats?"

"Not just goats, Scully. Similar attacks have been reported on cattle, like here, and also on sheep and ram."

"Mulder, do you have any idea how much paperwork would be involved to be able to investigate in Puerto Rico? Skinner will never let us go there."

"We're not going to Puerto Rico, Scully," Mulder said, tipping his head so she could get a better view of his cowboy hat. "Just like the Puerto Rican goat-sucker doesn't only attack goats, it's been reported in many other places than Puerto Rico. Sometimes even as far as Oregon and Michigan. But we're going to Texas."

Scully sighed heavily. This is what she had feared ever since she saw Mulder's hat. More wild goose-chases and jetlag.

"While you were out gallivanting this morning," Mulder continued, "I booked our flight and made reservations at the motel. We leave at two."

Mulder reached out from under his desk and brought out a suitcase.

"And, I also got us some local dress to wear."

"Why?"

"Oh, come on Scully. You know how intense some of the people down there can get. You flash a badge at them and they immediately turn off. Hell, it seems like half the state is under the delusion that the government is out to get them."

"Mulder, _you're under the delusion that the government is out to get you."_

Mulder made a grimace.

"There's a difference. They _are out to get me. So, anyway, that's why I thought we could go undercover to talk to the ranch-hands responsible for those cattle."_

"I'm warning you now, Mulder: I am not going to wear anything that has ruffles."

Mulder opened up the suitcase, revealing a red blouse with blue ruffles along the sleeves and collar. He looked up at Scully and grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry."

* * *

AUSTIN-BERGSTROM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TEXAS

3:30 P.M.

After the plane had unloaded them at Austin-Bergstrom airport, Mulder called a cab to take them to their motel at the small town of El Hoyo Del Polvo (the Dust Hole) near the border with Mexico. Waiting for the cab on the sidewalk on the outside of the front of the airport, Mulder kept getting odd glares from bystanders. This was probably attributable to the fact that Mulder had changed into his cowboy costume before leaving at Washington. He didn't want anybody local to Hoyo Del Polvo, as unlikely as that was considering the size of that town, to see him getting off the plane in the dark and drab suits the FBI agent usually wore. The downside to this plan was that the cowboy hat, red (with white dots, of course) scarf, faded blue shirt, black pants, brown chaps and star-heeled cowboy boots made him stand out in the modern looking airport like a gangrenous sore. As yet another client of the airport, a business-like woman with a dark shirt and skirt ensemble, gaze him the same kind of look Mulder usually reserved for the odd roaches he found in his apartment, Mulder turned to Scully and said:

"You know, this is just a temporary situation."

Scully, trying her best to appear as if she didn't know the false cowpoke next to her, made a noncommittal noise.

"Admittedly," Mulder continued, "Such a stereotypical get-up can get weird looks in a modern part of the state, but as soon as we get into the rural areas I'll fit right in. This is the typical garb of us lone cowboys and herders."

Scully turned, gave him a long hard look, and then turned away again with a shake of her head.

"You know, Mulder," Scully said, making a point of looking elsewhere, "The real advantage to this is that you won't need to go shopping the next time you get invited to a costume ball or Halloween party.

"Laugh all you want, Scully, but I think you're going to miss out on some great local action. The only way to really get into touch with such a colorful and distrustful culture is to get inside it. You'll always be an outsider to their eyes."  
Scully had not changed into the "fashionable South-Western garments" that Mulder had purchased for her. In her usual FBI clothing, she stood out like a stark contrast to her partner, but at least she fit in with her décor. 

"We've gone over this already, Mulder," she said. "You go undercover while I work through the normal channels. If we find what we're looking for through the informal channels, that will be all the better. We won't have to offer up any explanations for our behavior, and for once poor Skinner won't have to deal with an all-to-vague and inconclusive report. Besides," she continued, "If the people of El Hoyo Del Polvo are actually as paranoid and suspicious as you think, then having a confirmed FBI agent snooping around time will take attention away from you."

"If you really think so, Scully, then we'll have to make a few changes to the rest of our plan."

"How so?"

"Well, for one thing, it might be a good idea for us to switch your motel reservation. Maybe something a little more worthy of a FBI agent. I trust you can make those arrangements when you get to El Hoyo Del Polvo."

"Sure, that's no problem, Mulder."

"Oh, and another thing," Mulder said as a faded beige car which a sign that said TAXI on it. "We shouldn't be seen entering town together." Mulder opened the back door on the cab, and slid in, quickly closing the door after him. "See you out in the bushes, Scully!" he cried out the window as the cab pulled away, leaving an extremely irritated Dana Scully behind.

* * *

EL HOYO DEL POLVO, SOUTHERN TEXAS

6:02 P.M.

El Hoyo Del Polvo was one of hundreds of little towns that sprung up all along cattle trails in Texas and accompanying states during the olden days of the Wild West. First, a few drinking saloons and whorehouses would go up on the more frequented paths taken by cowboys herding the cattle from one ranch to another, with the goal of relieving the travel-weary cowboys of their money, sometimes legally, sometimes not. Eventually, a few other buildings would rise up next to the pleasure establishments as concurrent business, mostly messengers and carriage services. Eventually, the people servicing all these new businesses would need to be supplied in foodstuffs. A market lead to the arrival of other market specialties, most notably blacksmiths, but various others as well. Banks and telegraph offices would follow shortly, and after a decade or two a small, but bustling, southern town would have risen on what was previously an arid, empty stretch of desert that only saw activity when the herds passed through.

But whereas many such towns, like Pasadena, had grown out of their humble origins, El Hoyo Del Polvo had retained much of its old-time charm. Looking out the window of the cab, Mulder noted the apparent predominance of bars (both the ordinary and topless variety) in the town. The architecture also hadn't changed much since the town's inception. Some of the buildings looked like they still had their original coat of paint… or at least, what was left of it. Getting out of the cab (after paying a rather exorbitant fee), Mulder had the impression of stepping into a modernized version of Lonesome Dove, albeit somewhat seedier. Hefting his pack, Mulder walked along the dirty street (_at least it's asphalt and not water-dust, Mulder thought), looking at the various establishments' sings, searching for his motel. Finally he spotted an old wooden building with a hanging sign that read: _El Gato Negro**. Next to these words, was a large black cat, the motel's namesake, its back curled and its fur raised, as if it was hissing at the people in the street.**

As Mulder pondered on the meaning of a superstition-based name for a motel, and it's effect on business and clientele, he passed under the foreboding sign and into what he supposed was the lobby. Behind the wooden counter, a surly, balding man stared at his with neutral contempt.

"I booked a room here this morning. My name is Dick Ames."

The man behind the counter turned his considerable girth towards a set of square boxes behind him, never taking his gaze of Mulder, and deftly picked up a key, which he flicked over to Mulder. The FBI agent caught it, and then signed in a booklet that the motel owner passed him. The man didn't give any directions, so Mulder walked out of the office and into one of the attachments that matched the number on his key. The room itself was about what he had expected, very spartan but workable.

Mulder went out to one of numerous local beef houses for supper, pleased to see that his outfit did indeed blend in with the rest of the locals. It was Scully, he reflected, that would stick out like a sore thumb in such a backwards areas. Afterwards he returned to his motel room, to make sure that all his affairs were in order. 

The department had prepared him a few official looking papers for one "Dick Ames", formerly of Montana. They wouldn't hold up to close scrutiny, since Mulder requested them rather last-minute, but he doubted that he'd even need them for his purposes. Mulder decided not to take his FBI ID with him, at least for now, just in case. He slipped his sleek black gun in his back, hooking it to his belt. Tomorrow, he'd buy himself one of the local models.

Mulder was about to go out and do some early reconnaissance when his cell phone, which he had left in a drawer since he felt it wasn't in character, began ringing. Mulder took it out and flipped it on.

"Mulder."

"It took nearly half-an-hour for me to get another cab, Mulder."

Mulder smiled to himself and leaned back against the bed.

"And do you want to know where I'm staying? The Rattlesnake Inn. Now do you want me to tell you how well I'm going to sleep tonight?"

"I doubt that they have many rattlesnakes, Scully. Think of it as just another quaint example of the colorful local tradition."

"I'd rather be a non-participant observer."

"Well, at least you won't be ruffing it out with me. Yep, life can be hard on dem dere cattle trails."

"Your actually enjoying yourself, aren't you?" asked a scandalized Scully.

"Oh, come on Scully. Don't tell me you never fantasized about becoming a cowboy – cowgirl – when you were a kid."

"No, Mulder; when I was a kid I wanted to be a doctor. Because that involved working in anti-septic environments, not this dust hole in the middle of Nowhere, the Desert."

"Well, you will. As the 'official' member of our party, you're the one who gets to make a visit to the morgue to check out those exsanguinated cows."

"I can barely contain my joy," Scully said, deadpanned.

"Well, I have to go out and blend with the locals. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Sure, Mulder. Bye."

"Bye."

Mulder turned off the cell phone, placed it back in the drawer, and left his motel room. Moving along the dirt-caked sidewalks, Mulder headed towards what could be considered 'downtown' in El Hoyo Del Polvo, namely the areas where the buildings were the closest together (and violating the most fire safety regulations). A dead neon sign announced that a bar was named The Poisoned Well . Thinking this was probably a good place to start his investigation, Mulder stepped inside.

The bar was smoky, crowded, and dominated by an almost ever-present aroma of stale beer, the kind that was never watered down. The clientele was mostly male, though Mulder noticed a few floozies hanging on the arms of rather gritty looking cowboys. These same men eyed him with a look of suspicion with was both accusing and nonjudgmental, as if these men automatically assumed that anybody they didn't know was a potential threat. Mulder moved over to an empty seat next to the bar, and looked around for a bartender.

The man that walked up to him could have been a clone of the manager at Mulder's motel. They both had the same round face, receding hairline, expanding waistline, and constant scowl. The only difference was that this man, in the eternal bartender stereotype, was wearing a beer-stained apron and cleaning a mug with an equally stained rag. Mulder made a gesture for one beer to the bartender, who didn't answer him but turned around to fetch another glass.

The bartender poured Mulder's drink and placed it in front of him, never turning his scowl away from Mulder. After taking a sip (and trying not to let his revulsion at the extremely strong beer show in his face), Mulder asked the bartender:

"I just moved in here. I was wondering if you know of any place I can get me a gig for a while."

The bartender picked up a new glass and began cleaning it. After a few moments had passed, Mulder was about to lean over and ask again, but a voice next to him halted his motion.

"You lookin' fer a job?"

Mulder turned towards his interlocutor, a rugged-looking cowboy of about thirty years, unshaven and in need of a hair cut. 

"Yeah. You know of anything?"

"Sure. Ol' boss Brown is on the lookout fer a new wrangler after his last one quit t'day."

"What's the job about."

"Oh, you know, the usual. Ride along in the back of the pack, making sure nobody tries to score a few heads off yer herd."

"Really? That sounds like a nice job. I'm surprised nobody took it yet."

"That's 'cause ol' boss Brown has had a string o' bad luck with his heads recently. It's why the other guy quit."

"Cattle mutilations?"

The other man gave him an odd look, and Mulder reminded himself to stay in character. But the seedy cowboy shrugged and said:

"I guess you could call 'em dat."

"Is it… those local legends I heard about? The Chupacabra? Do people really believe that stuff?"

"Course not. Dat kind of stuff is for tourists and wackos with aluminum hats."

"So why isn't anybody taking Brown up on his offer."

"Well, the Chupacabra is just a story, see. But dat don't mean Ah'm gonna tempt fate, y'understand? Why take chances with dat kind of thang?"

Mulder's bar-mate rose from his seat, tipped his hat to the bartender, and threw some money on the counter. Mulder watched him walk out the antique-style swinging doors, and then turned towards the bartender.

"Do you know where I can find boss Brown?"

The bartender scowled and cleaned a mug.

* * *

EL HOYO DEL POLVO CONSTABULARY

9:12 A.M.

Scully passed through the doors of the dusty constabulary of El Hoyo Del Polvo, which was actually one of the more destitute buildings in the cattle-town. Scully could only suppose that it's because it's the establish in this town which got the less revenue. The inns, bars and brothels would receive a steady income from the passing herd hands, and they in turn would supplement the complementary businesses like markets. It was these kinds of governmental buildings that went ignored by Hoyo Del Polvo's nomadic population. Scully realized that she had not seen a hospital or a school since arriving in the town. In fact, she had only seen one child. Scully really couldn't blame them. She wouldn't want her children growing up in a seedy little town like this.

"How can I help you, marm?" a teenaged boy sitting behind the single desk asked her as she went in.

Scully looked around the office quickly before answering. Besides the desk, there were also a few filing cabinets, a message board with various "Wanted" posters pinned-up on it, and a single jail cell, built in the antique western style. If tradition was right, that cell was for dangerous criminals that the local law didn't want to let out of their sight. Any other offenders would be relegated to an adjacent building with a few more cells.

"I'd like to speak to Constable Rutledge, please."

"Yer speakin' to him."

Scully gave the boy a scorching glance. On closer inspection he did look a little older, but Scully placed him at maximum of 23 years old. The lad seemed to understand the reason for her examination, because he blushed (_Blushed! Scully thought) and said:_

"Ah'm twenty two. Yeah, I know, I looks a lot younger than Ah really am. But Ah am the constable here."

When Scully didn't answer, he continued.

"It runs in the blood, see? Mah father was the constable b'fore me, and when he got killed in a shootup with a drunk outside a bar, nobody else wanted to take th'job. Polvo ain't exactly the easiest place to enforce the law. So Ah took the job. Figured the old man would be proud. But I do assure you, marm, I am qualified fer the post."

Scully was still somewhat skeptical, but she reminded herself that she had seen a lot of stranger things in her time investigating the X-Files. 

"My name is Dana Scully, I'm a Special Agent with the FBI," she said, flipping out her identity card.

"Yes, agent. What can I do fer you?" Rutledge said, trying his best to sound official.

"I'm here to investigate the string of odd cattle deaths that have been reported in the area."

Rutledge blinked in surprise.

"Those? Why would the FBI want to concern themselves with those?"

"It was our impression that killing off cattle can't be very good for the local economy."

"Well, no, o' course not. But… well, you know. Those dead cows… they weren't exactly killed by something you can arrest."

Scully looked up.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well… don't get me wrong, agent, Ah'm as level headed as the next guy, and even six months ago I would have told you that all this was nuthing but old wives tales to scare children but…" Rutledge shrugged. "Ah might sound like a fool fer sayin' this, but I'd be an even bigger fool if I tried to deny what I've seen."

"Have you seen the… creature in question?" Scully asked, reluctant to be the first to come out and mention the Chupacabra in the conversation.

"Heck no. But Ah've seen its handiwork. And that's nuthing I'd like to come up against alone in the desert night."

"Speaking of… "Its" handiwork, I was wondering if it would be possible for us to go examine the bodies for further evidence as to what killed the cattle in question."

"You wanna go look at some dead cows?" Rutledge asked, incredulous.

"That's the general idea, yes. Do you have any specimens that I could autopsy?"

"Well… we usually just burn dead cows. No use in lettin' germs and bacteria spawn and form colonies in the carcasses, you understand. But I think we might still have the one from the night b'fore."

"Great. Let's get this over and done with."

* * *

"This is it?" Scully asked in shock.

"Yeah. We'd put a blanket over it so the flies didn't gather on it until we burnt it."

Scully shook her head. The cow lied dead in the dirt outside behind the constabulary, a featureless maroon tarp thrown over its body.

"Don't you have somewhere a little more… antiseptic… where I could perform the autopsy?"

"Well…" Rutledge said, deep in thought, "I guess would could use to mortuary. It might be a little weird to have a cow there instead of a man, but it'd work fer the same purposes."

"So… now what?"

"I'll have the mortuary cleared and get a couple of the guys from town to carry it over. Some guys in this place would do anythin' for a couple of extra bucks."

"I'll keep that in mind," Scully said, rising away from the corpse of the cow and swiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. A dead cow lying in the desert heat under a tarp could produce a smell she had never believed could exist. And Scully was just overjoyed at the prospect of working even closer with it.

* * *

THE POISONED WELL BAR, EL HOYO DEL POLVO

12:30 P.M.

Mulder had been told that boss Brown usually ate lunch at the_ Poisoned Well, which also doubled as restaurant. Surveying the cramped wooden room, already bearing a thick smoke ceiling and stinking of beer (__unless, Mulder thought, __it was yesterday's stink of beer that they weren't able to get rid of). Whether boss Brown was present as predicted, however, was not immediately confirmed._

The mouse-like clerk at the store which he had purchased his new gun this morning (a silvery .45 Colt, one of the new Cowboy models), had agreed to provide the location of boss Brown, as well as waiving the usual waiting period for the gun, for a minimal fee. Apparently, boss Brown was a man who loved his cattle. He drove them, he ran his business on them, and he invariably lunched on them every day.

Knowing he wouldn't get a response from the dour bartender, Mulder asked one of the men bellying up to their drinks at their bar where he could talk to boss Brown. The man belched, then turned and pointed to one of the few booths lined up against the building's west side. Two men were already sitting in the booth, in front of dishes of steak and T-bone. Mulder thanked the man, moved over to the booth, and boldly slid into the empty seat.

The two men already sitting there looked up at him more in amusement than suspicion or hostility. The first one was round and grizzled, with dusty white hair sticking out elegantly from a large cowboy hat with a high cone. He wore a gray overcoat above a white shirt, a large, brown and probably rawhide belt with a large Texas-shaped buckle. His pants were also gray and well pressed. His companion was dressed much less extensively. A simple red shirt, black belt, and much-used jeans.

"Can Ah help you, saw?" the old one asked with a faint hint of humor in his voice.

"I'm looking for a job, and I was told to look for boss Brown."

"Well, you found 'im, boy," he replied.

"And I was told you had a position available?"

"That's right. One of my boys got yellow-bellied an' quit on me."

"I'd be interested in the job."

"Really? Would you now? Tell me saw, what's yer name?"

"Ames. Dick Ames."

"And why should Ah hire you, mistah Ames?"

"Well, I have experience dealing with cattle before. I'm loyal, trustworthy and not afraid of hard-work or long hours. I have no other obligations than this job. And, I've been told, there's not much of a supply of willing herders at this time."

"You've heard right, Dick. A few cattle die off, and some boys just go off a-runnin'. Superstitious fools. I hope you don't believe in that Chupacabra line o' manure do you?"

"No, sir. It's ridiculous to believe all these outrageous stories you hear. I say, give me real, concrete evidence, and then I'll accept it as the truth."

"Good lad," Brown said. He jerked his head over to his partner. "Now Rodham here, he says he believes hard as iron that there's something runnin' around out there in the desert."

The other man, Rodham, shrugged.

"I've seen what happened to those cows. We've had it happen in our own herd, after all. And if it wasn't the Chupacabra, than what was it? Something killed those cows, sucked them dry of their blood, and didn't leave a mark. That doesn't bode to well, in my opinion." Mulder noticed that the man spoke with precision, and his southern accent was hard to detect.

"So if you believe there's some kind of creature preying on cows, we do you still go out with the herd?"

Rodham shrugged again.

"I need the money."

"But what about you, mistah Ames?" Brown asked. "Yer not from around here, I can tell from yer accent."

"I'm from up north, in Montana. I used to work on a ranch there. There was a lot of cows, but quite a number of horses, too. In the summer, when there was no snow, a the plains were all green grass, we'd stage presentation of herding and round-ups for tourists."

"An' why'd you leave green Montana fer dry ol' Hoyo Del Polvo?"

Mulder was glad he had spent some time last night making a back-story for Dick Ames.

"My wife died. Cancer. After that, it just hurt too much to around those parts. I felt like a needed to start my life anew."

"So you came here because you knew how to herd," Brown said, nodding his head. "What her name? Yer wife, I mean. If it's not pryin'."

_Damn, I hadn't anticipated that one. Mulder tried to think quickly._

"Dana," he said, pulling down the first name that came to him.

"Well, Dick, you seem like a nice guy. Ah'm taking a herd out tomorrow, heading fer La Comida. It's a quick three-day jaunt, no border crossing. If you do good, I'll keep you on."

"Thanks," Mulder said, and they shook hands over the table.

"Well, Ah'm boss Brown, but you can call me 'boss'," he said. "And this here is Rodham Este," Brown continued, jerking a finger at his companion.

Rodham returned Mulder's nod with a two-fingered off the head salute.

"The other member of our jolly bunch is a guy we call 'Bull'. Right now, he's probably out at the bawdy houses, earning his nickname," Brown said leeringly.

"Which reminds me," Rodham said, "I have to go make sure the herd is ready to go for tomorrow morning."

Brown rose from his seat to let Rodham slide out. The two men exchanged partings, and Brown sat back down in front of his plate.

"Will ya look at that? He didn't finish his steak." Brown made an _tsk-tsk sound. "That boy needs to eat better." Brown looked up at Mulder. "But he's a damn good worker, a man who takes care of his fam'ly. You can mark me on that."_

Mulder nodded.

"Is there anything else I need to know about the job?"

"Some. But that's best talked about over some beer. Waitress!"

* * *

EL HOYO DEL POLVO MORTUARY

2:13 P.M.

"Ah'm really sorry it took so long to get the room ready, miss Scully. Barnes has been the coroner hear from the time of my pappy's pappy, and he can be a cranky old coot sometimes."

"It's okay," Scully said, hiding her irritation. "Let's just get started."

They had had to puss together several tables to be able to get the cow fully flat. The dead creature still stunk almost as badly as it had outside (the slight reduction being to a surprisingly modern ventilation system), and its parched tongue rolled stupidly out of its gaping mouth.

The instruments in the room were a little rudimentary, but they would work. Luckily, Scully had brought her own tape recorder, which she placed on a nearby file cabinet so it would capture her words.

"The subject is… bovine," Scully started, speaking loudly so that she would be recorded through the pale blue mask she wore. "A dark maroon in color, with an ovoid shaped black spot near the rear."

Scully lifted one of the rear legs.

"Subject is also male. All external signs would point to dehydration as being the cause of death. There does not appear to be any residual moisture on the subject's skin, nor any recent trace of saliva in the subject's mouth. Judging by the state of decomposition, time of death is estimated at somewhere between 36 and 60 hours from autopsy. I will now proceed to examine subject's digestive track for signs of possible poisoning."

Scully took one of the rudimentary scalpels, and made an incision along the cow's underbelly. The large intestines fell out with a dry scraping sound. Rutledge, who had been standing nervously nearby, suddenly clasped his hands over his mouth, made a few choking sounds, and ran out of the room.

Scully shook her head. _The boy can describe the death of his father to me in a perfectly sanguine manner, and yet give him one desiccated cattle corpse…_

Scully continued with the autopsy without Rutledge.

* * *

THE POISONED WELL BAR, EL HOYO DEL POLVO

3:25 P.M.

If the boss invites you for a drink, it would be stupid to turn him down.

Mulder knew this, but as Brown set down yet another mug of the foul-tasting beer in front of him, he was reconsidering this whole undercover portion of this assignment. _The things I wouldn't do in my quest for the truth, Mulder thought, trying not to wince as he took another gulp of the urine-colored liquid. _

"But Ah'm telling you, Dick," Brown continued on rambling, apparently unaffected by the alcohol, "These attacks of whatever it is had better stop soon. It's startin' to cut into mah profit margin."

"The dead cows?"

"Amongst other things. The guy who had yer job before you wasn't the only one to chicken out. A lot of my former buyers and clients are startin' to get worried about whether I can deliver the goods. Them dead cows belonged to somebody you know. I had to pay 'em, but it's a lot worse if people won't call you up fer yer services because they're worried about something lurking in the desert."

Brown made an expansive gesture with his hands.

"Ah'm losin' business to A.P. Meats, a rootin'-tootin' big-shot comp'ny up from Dallas. When they lost their first heads, they could afford to hire extra security. But me, I can barely afford to hire some greenhorn to round out my team. No offence, Dick."

"None taken," Mulder replied.

"You gotta gun?"

"Of course."

"Good. If that thing shows up, I want to plug holes in its hide."

"You said you didn't believe in the Chupacabra."

"Well," Brown said, looking down at his half-empty mug, "Rodham's right. Something has to have killed them cows. And Ah don't know what."

Brown took another draw from his beer.

"Ya know the most creepy part?" he asked Mulder. "It happened almost right next to us, where we we're sleeping. Four of us and not a single one of us woke up. That thing must have been silent like the devil to kill a grown bull without making a noise. And there were no tracks afterwards either. Frankly, I'd rather fall in a pit of rattlers than have to deal with that thing. At least with the rattlers I know what I'd be dealing with."

* * *

EL HOYO DEL POLVO MORTUARY

3:45 P.M.

The examination of the cadaver of the bull was a slow and unpleasant process. Constable Rutledge was outside the room as much as he was outside, apparently very offset by the sights of the animal's innards. Scully wasn't too pleased with the situation herself. The stench was terrible, and the sights were disgusting. She'd had to do worse autopsies, though. Especially the ones that blasé coroners call "the juicy ones".

And yet that was the very problem with this particular specimen. It had no internal fluids to speak off whatsoever. Certainly, being left in the baking desert does not help, but the bull seemed to have been drained of all its fluids, not just it's blood.

"Now this is odd…" Scully muttered to herself. She turned around to check if Rutledge was still in the room. He was so she called him over. "Look, here, on the jugular. Two puncture marks. They're pretty big too, not something you'd expect from a needle or fangs. Unless they're really large fangs, that is."

Scully reached over to the tray and took a small ruler.

"The puncture marks on the jugular appear to both be the same size, approximately five centimeters in diameter. They are two centimeters away from each other, and precisely aligned onto the jugular. There is no residual blood coating the area surrounding the puncture. Although…"

Scully swung the magnifying glass above the examination table so she could better see the odd holes.

"There appears to be some stretching of the skin just around the wound, as if it was distended."

"Wouldn't it do that just from the bite?" Rutledge asked.

"Maybe… but it doesn't look like the ligament stretch you'd expect in that case. The stretching seems to be confined strictly to the epidermis."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

* * *

THE POISONED WELL BAR, EL HOYO DEL POLVO

5:21 P.M.

If Mulder weren't so inebriated, he probably would have felt much better to observe that the seemingly impervious boss Brown did, in fact, have a limit on the amount of alcohol he could consume before getting drunk. As it was, however, Mulder felt as if he couldn't string together a rational thought to save his life.

"So Ah says to him, maybe it was for John Wayne, but I'd rather pick the bull!"

Mulder joined Brown in his riotous laughter, even though he couldn't remember what the rest of the joke had been.

"You're a-headin' into some pretty tough territory there, pilgrim," Mulder said, ironically doing a much better impersonation when drunk than sober.

Brown found this to be an absolute riot, and laughed so hard it could almost be described as bellowing. When Brown had recovered, he clapped Mulder on the shoulder, sending the FBI agent sprawling onto the booth's bunk.

"Damn, Dick! You're even more of a redneck than I am, and that's quite a stretch!" Both men starting laughing again. "You'll round out the team nicely. I'm a redneck, Bull's as redneck as they come, and even Rodham's a redneck even though he don't like admittin' it. That poor boy still thinks he gonna get out of here somehow. But I know from experience: once born in the outback, you stay in the outback all yer life."

Brown had seemed to sober up a bit, but now a new spark of light appeared in his eye.

"I know! I'll get us some more beer!"

And he did, much to Mulder's ever growing dismay.

* * *

THE SETTING SUN TRAILER PARK, JUST OUTSIDE EL HOYO DEL POLVO

6:04 P.M.

Rodham Este was bone-weary tired when he arrived at the cramped semi-trailer he called home. The Setting Sun Trailer Park was home for most of transitory residents in the area surrounding El Hoyo Del Polvo. It was far enough away so that the scrappy town didn't intrude on the flat, featureless horizon that the view from his trailer offered him, but only ten minutes' drive away. Only, whereas most of the trailers in the park were owned by single men, often drunk and often away for lengthy periods of time, Rodham's trailer was inhabited 24-hours a day by his wife and son.

Rodham surveyed the park while shaking some mud off his boots. It wasn't altogether a bad place; certainly he'd lived in worse during his childhood. The park ground was hard and dusty, but it was uncluttered by litter or other such objects. And yet, it still stung to his pride that this was the best he could offer to his family. They deserved so much better.

Once he assured himself that he would not be tracking mud into the vehicle-home, he went in. The main chamber was deserted, the swiveling seats empty and the table insert still folded into the wall.

"Hello?"

"Hi, dad!" Rodham heard his son cry out. Judging by the other bleeping noises he could hear, his son was in his tiny room, playing on the old Super Nintendo console and the one video game they'd gotten from the Salvation Army after their Christmas drive. It had been humiliating to stand in line outside their temporary office, but Rodham often said that he'd be damned if he let something as insubstantial as pride get in the way of his family's happiness. "Mom went out to get dinner."

"Okay."

Rodham went into the slightly larger room that he and his wife shared. He had spent a hard afternoon out at the cattle-pen, making sure the herd was ready to be moved for tomorrow. He'd sweated a lot and stepped in his share of future-manure, and so it was with great relief that he removed his clothes. He'd never liked wearing them anyway; they were too flashy and stereotypical. But he wore them because that's what was expected.

Rodham's biggest goal in life was to get out off 'this pissant little western town with no future for a man and his family', as he often muttered when nobody else was listening. He'd promised himself that as soon as he had enough money, he'd start up the trailer and they'd all leave for better grounds. Away from El Hoyo Del Polvo, away from the backwater lack of civilization of the desert, maybe even out of Texas entirely. That place the new guy, Dick Ames, had talked about at lunch had seemed appealing. Maybe they'd go to Montana. He'd go to a ranch, take care of cattle and horses, maybe put on a show or two for the tourists in the summer. It would be in wide-open spaces, so it wouldn't be too much of a change of settings. And his son would finally see snow.

Lost in his reverie, Rodham was in his underwear when his wife Gene sneaked into the room and wrapped her arms around him. She promptly stepped back from him, and gave him a light slap on the arm.

"Whew! I can't be married to a man who smells that bad! I think we should get a divorce," she said smiling.

"I never knew you thought of me that way," Rodham answered. Looking down at his mud-caked underwear, he continued: "Maybe I should go change my shorts."

"Well, hurry up, honey. I've got a surprise for supper."

Rodham changed into a pair of clean clothes, put the dirty ones on the clothesline outside by leaning out the trailer window, and walked out of the room and into the main segment. His son had left the video console to join them at the table, and Gene smiled at him radiantly from the other side. On the table was fish.

"Surprise! I knew you were getting fed up of only eating beef all the time, so I got something special from town tonight."

She was right, of course. She knew him too well. He had had quite enough of eating steak all the time, and thought he'd go insane if he ever saw another T-bone. But fish, edible fish, was not easy to get one's hands on out in the middle of the dusty southwestern desert.

"Where – I mean, we can't afford fish."

"Sure we can," Gene said, splitting into an even bigger smile, "I got a raise today."

"Honey, that's wonderful! Why, I–" Rodham was cut off as the phone on the side of the wall rang. "Hang on… Rodham Este, here."

The voice on the other end of the line was harsh, gruff, and unyielding as well as unidentifiable. 

"There's an FBI agent poking around in town. You can tell her by her expensive looking suit and red hair. Be on your guard, we're too close to our goal to have it all fall down around us now. You'll have the instruments for tomorrow night at Barnes' at noon. You know what you have to do."

"Yes," Rodham said, but the voice had already hung up.

"Who was that, honey?" Gene asked.

"Oh, just boss Brown making sure the herd was ready for tomorrow," Rodham said quickly.

"Such an old sour puss, that man," she said, the grin on her face only getting larger. Rodham looked at her and his son gathered angelically around the supper table. Once again, he knew with absolute certainty that he would do anything for his family. Anything.

* * *

EL GATO NEGRO MOTEL, EL HOYO DEL POLVO

7:37 P.M.

Mulder stumbled awkwardly from the door onto his bed. He'd been drunk before, but never this badly. The spartan motel room was not only spinning, but it was also flipping over from time to time. Mulder moaned as he lied on the bed. A headache had just developed, and Mulder could almost swear that his head was literally ringing like a bell.

Then the ringing stopped as suddenly as it had started. After a few seconds, it started up again, coming from the side of his bed. Through the fog, Mulder remembered the cell phone in the drawer.

"Mulder."

"It's Scully. I'm standing outside the door of your motel room, and the street is deserted."

Mulder rose from the bed with a groan and went over to the door. He opened it, and Scully, standing outside with her cell phone at her ear and pretending to be looking somewhere else, walked backwards into the room. She slipped her cell phone into her pocket, and then looked back at Mulder, who was still standing by the door.

"Close the door, Mulder! You're the one who wanted this whole undercover thing to start off with."

"Sorry," Mulder replied, slurring the word, then closed the door. Scully walked up to him and stared at his face.

"You're drunk, aren't you? I can't believe this! While I spend my entire afternoon working over the stinking corpse of a cow, you just go and get tanked on the local ale! Makes you wonder how much you care about this case."

"I haven't given up, and I'm not getting drunk," Mulder lied, rather poorly. "I'd never do it. Never in a million beers."

Scully arched an eyebrow.

"Well, maybe a bit. I had to. The boss kept bringing mug after mug, and I didn't want to offend him. Tasted like piss, too."

"Well, well, well, Mulder. Think of it this way: at least you're not missing out on any of the colorful local moors and habits," she said with a vindictive smile.

The smile faded away as Mulder did not reply, but tottered in place.

"Mulder? Are you okay?"

Mulder fell to the floor. Scully sighed, and reached down to put Mulder back on the bed.

"Ask a stupid question…"

* * *

5:14 A.M.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!" Scully said as she parted the thin drapes over the window.

"Oh… what happened to my head last night?" Mulder moaned.

"Which part? Your head probably hurts because you got drunk and now have a hangover, but I'd be willing to wager that the reason your face hurts is because you landed on it afterwards."

Mulder moaned again.

"You told me last night you had a job. Do you remember that?"

Mulder frowned, trying to concentrate past the throb in his forehead.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Five fifteen."

"Okay. I have to be dressed and ready to go at a coral by six."

"A coral? So you're actually going to be a cowboy?"

"Genuine and certified. Well… neither, really. But the people whom I've signed up with have had several Chupacabra attacks on their cattle in the past, and I'm hoping that it will happen again on this time out."

"Be careful, Mulder. I autopsied one of the bulls like you asked, and it had two very large holes on its jugular. If those were teeth marks, it is not something you'd want to cross paths with."

"I have my gun, and the others will be armed too."

"There's another thing, Mulder. The bull I autopsied had no remaining fluids in his body. It wasn't just exsanguinated – it was completely drained of any and all liquid in its body."

Mulder looked distant, considering the new evidence.

"There were also traces of skin stretching around the wounds. Epidermal only. What do you make of it?"

Mulder considered.

"Well, it could still be the Chupacabra, only one that has gotten much more violent, much bigger and/or much more thirsty than the other reported incidents. Or it might be something else entirely. You know… I hear that desert cacti have incredibly high rates of absorption. It could also account for the apparent silence of the attack."

"A predatory cactus? The Venus cow-trap? Isn't that a little far-fetched, even for you Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head.

"You're right, of course. A cactus would have left some kind of traces."

It was Scully's turn to shake her head.

"You're incorrigible, Mulder. Go, you wouldn't want to be late for your first day on the job."

* * *

SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT, SOUTHERN TEXAS

12:02 P.M.

The hot desert sun beat on Mulder's head like a physical force, slowly grinding away at his skull in some kind of bizarre erosion. Mulder mentally flashed to all the expressions and clichés he'd heard describing extreme heat, and then dismissed them all as being much too mild for these circumstances.

Mulder examined the men sitting around him, eating beans out of cans. If boss Brown was having any ill effects from all the beer they had drunk yesterday, he concealed it well. A smile had never left his jowled face since they'd set out. Some men just enjoyed their jobs, Mulder supposed.

Rodham acted characteristically dour. The well-shaved young man rode his horse with expertise and constantly scanned the horizon with an unfaltering attention. His eyes were small and hard, and his jaw set in a grim sort of fashion.

Bull, whom Mulder had only met that morning, was something else altogether. He looked like a cross between John Wayne and Crocodile Dundee. The jaw was square and unshaven, his hair cut at neck length. He had a thick neck, and a scar ran across it, as if somebody had once tried to slit his throat and failed. He smiled all the time, but unlike Brown there always seemed to be some other motivation behind it.

While Brown and Rodham rode horses along side the herd in the traditional style, Mulder and Bull rode behind the herd in Brown's dusty brown jeep. It was open-roofed, which was why Mulder was suffering so from the blazing sun.

They had finally stopped for a thirty-minute luncheon. Their goal was to get the herd, with exactly 98 heads, over to another coral in La Comida. Their path ran parallel to the Rio Grande, about thirty miles northwards of the divide. Brown, who had taken this path with the two others before, had told him the trip would take about three days. Afterwards, they'd all head back to El Hoyo Del Polvo in the jeep and be back before sundown.

"So, Dick, Bull here says he saw you were entertainin' a lady friend in yer motel room last night," Brown said between mouthfuls of beans. Mulder glanced over at Bull, who smiled in that unpleasant way again.

"Maybe, maybe not," Mulder replied ambiguously.

"Really? Because from what he told us, she was hard to miss."

"Real purty," Bull put in.

"Yes, a redhead in a business suit. How much money did you bring down from Montana with you, anyway?" Brown asked with a leer.

Mulder fought a compulsion to defend himself and his partner. _Stay in character, he reminded himself._

"Well, you know how it is. After I lost my wife, I became really lonely."

"So… give us some details, yes?"

"I'd rather not," Mulder said.

"Chicken?" Bull asked.

"Lay off him, Bull," Rodham intervened. "If he doesn't want to talk about it, then that's his choice." Rodham rose, his can of beans finished, and as he walked back towards his horse he put his hand on Mulder's shoulder in a comforting manner. "If I ever lost my Gene, I don't know what I'd do. You're a brave man, Ames."

The luncheon apparently finished, the other men rose from their rocks and moved back to their rides, mechanical and biological. Slipping himself back into the passenger seat of the jeep, Mulder noticed a sharp piece of metal gleaming from under the tarp over the cargo compartment. He'd hidden his cell phone under there in case of an emergency, and hoped it hadn't become dislodged. Noticing his gaze, Bull's hand snaked out under the tarp, and came back with a rifle.

"It's a Winchester," he said with obvious pride. "Over seventy years old. Been in my fam'ly for generations."

"It's nice," Mulder said, making a mental note to keep an eye on the weapon. In addition to the shotgun, Bull also carried two old-style revolvers. Mulder, Rodham and Brown only had one sidearm each. Mulder also had his FBI identity card in his back pocket. He knew he was risking being discovered, but if anything should happen, he would need to take charge, and fast.

* * *

EL HOYO DEL POLVO CONSTABULARY

4:42 P.M.

Scully sank her head into her hands and gave a shake of her head.

"Is there a problem, ma'am," Rutledge asked conscientiously.

"The problem is that I've been interrogation people all afternoon, and nobody has given me a straight answer. In fact, about half didn't even answer at all. They just stared at me… it was eerie."

"Well, and you can take it from me agent, most people around here don't like the law. They don't think people like us should be pokin' around in their affairs. They live by the code of the west, not the codes of Dallas or Washington."

"Alright, but paranoid delusions aside, you'd think they'd want well-sponsored government agencies trying to solve their dead cow problems."

"That's another thing altogether, agent Scully. They don't want to look like fools by saying that the Chupacabra really exists, only to have it disproved later on. On the other hand, they don't want to be embarrassed by sayin' it's all a bunch of hooey and then be proved wrong when somebody bags one."

Scully shook her head. That kind of attitude would get her nowhere.

"What are you goin' to be now, agent?" Rutledge asked.

"I'm going to stick around a while, at least three days, while the lease on this assignment runs out. With luck, maybe some fresh evidence will turn up in that time."

"You'll forgive me, ma'am, if I say that considerin' what constitutes evidence in this case, I hope no more evidence turns up."

Scully nodded.

"I see your point. Well, this day was a waste. While I'm here, what other felonies do you have out here?"

"All the crimes are in this file," Rutledge said, picking a beige folder from the cabinet. He placed it in front of Scully, who opened it and began sorting through the papers. There were two reports of murder with no identified suspects; a complaint of extortion by a small-time herder against a beef company called A.P. Meats; several reports of abuse, both spousal and otherwise; a single report of rape, that had the word SOLVEDstamped on the paper; complaints about unidentified helicopter activity; four reports of muggings in the back alleys of El Hoyo Del Polvo; and one report of industrial theft.

"Industrial theft?" Scully asked, holding the paper up for Rutledge to see it.

"Oh, that's a funny story. A.P. Meats, this beef company up from Dallas, reported one of their industrial strength vacuum cleaners as stolen. As it turned out, their Public Relations department had borrowed it and forgot to file a report for it."

"What would a P.R. department want with an industrial strength vacuum cleaner?"

Rutledge shrugged.

"I don't know. Maybe they really wanted to make sure they had gotten all the money off their investors," he added with a smile.

Scully returned the smile, and put the file away.

* * *

SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT, SOUTHERN TEXAS

8:20 P.M.

They had stopped at sundown, letting the herd (and themselves) rest for the night. Boss Brown and Rodham had taken out what looked like a roll of mesh from under the jeep's tarp, then unrolled it in a large circle around the resting cattle, forming a quick makeshift fence.

As he helped plant the fence into the ground, Rodham told him that the mesh usually served a double purpose: It keeps any overly active cattle pinned inside the circle, and keeps other desert animals out. "Well, most animals, anyway," he added.

After the temporary enclosure had been set up, the four men gathered around a grouping of large rocks. They sat on them, and Rodham made a small wooden fire in the center. Mulder mused that except for the mesh-wire fence, it looked exactly like hundred of western movies he had seen. Four weary cowboys, sitting around the crackling campfire, beans cooking in a pan over the fire, the first few sparkling stars emerging in the ink-black sky. All that was missing was the soft, somber sounds of a harmonica.

"I've got something for you guys," Rodham said, moving over to the jeep. He lifted the tarp, rummaged around for a bit, then brought out a bottle of wine. "Me and Gene bought it yesterday to celebrate her getting a raise. We didn't finish it off, so I figured I'd bring it along tonight instead of letting it go to waste."

Brown leaned over the fire and took the bottle from Rodham.

"Ahh… yer a good lad, Rodham. This feels good on the old pallet. I drink too much rotgut whiskey when in town."

He handed the bottle to Mulder, who took a quick and shallow sip, just to be polite, that morning's hangover still fresh and painful in his memory. Mulder quickly passed the bottle of wine over to Bull, who picked it up while keeping one hand on the Winchester in his lap. Mulder nodded towards the rifle.

"Do you always sleep with your gun?"

"Not always," Bull replied between swills, "Most of the time Ah just leave it on the saddle or in the jeep. But Ah wanna have some protection with me. And if Ah hear anythang tonight, Ah intend to shoot first and ask questions later."

"So you do believe the rumors, then? About the Chupucabra."

"Ah don't know what it is," Bull said, "But Ah intend to pump it full of lead."

"What if it's bulletproof? You'll have a serious problem there," Mulder said, only half-joking.

"Ah, you forget, I have a black belt."

Mulder frowned.

"If something is bulletproof, I doubt any martial arts abilities would do much good."

"No, he actually means his belt," Brown interjected. "Made out of black bull hide. Our Bull is superstitious, you see." Brown chuckled. "He knows more old wives' tales than I do."

"According to local folklore," Rodham said, "Wearing a belt made from black bull hide that you killed yourself will make you a deadly shot. Bull thinks that he can hit and kill anything as long as he wears that."

"Better safe than sorry," Bull said in his defense.

"I can agree with that. Whatever it is, I seriously hope that it just leaves us alone for this trip," Rodham said.

"Amen to that," Brown answered.

"Knock on wood," Bull added.

Mulder made a show of looking around for a piece of wood to knock on, but finding only rocks and desert, shrugged expansively in Bull's direction. He was rewarded to see Rodham and Brown grin widely as Bull's annoying smirk was finally wiped off his face.

* * *

1:13 A.M.

Mulder stirred groggily from his sleep, wondering what all the racket was. _How is anybody supposed to sleep with all this noise? Mulder made a mental note to complain to his superintendent, when he remembered with a start that he was in the middle of the empty desert._

He jerked his head from the pack he had been resting against. There was a bright light, and placing his hand over his eyes Mulder could distinguish was looked a large object floating above the makeshift coral. All the cattle had gathered against the fence on the side opposite the object. They were stamping their hooves and mooing incessantly. But that wasn't the only noise Mulder could hear. There was also a rhythmic throbbing sound.

Focusing on the object and the noise, he was finally able to determine that what he was seeing that in fact not some kind of spaceship but a helicopter, painted in black so that it blended in with the night sky. He could see a lone figure silhouetted against the roving lights. Mulder turned over to where Brown and Bull were sleeping.

"Hey, wake up!" he said, shaking Bull's shoulder. When the cowboy was unresponsive, Mulder feared the worse and checked for a pulse. It was still there, but it seemed a little weak. As he turned Bull over, he could see a small gathering of a white substance at the side of his mouth. _They're drugged, he thought._

Taking out his Colt, Mulder slowly began approaching the mesh fence. He went around it, using the agitated cattle as a shield against being detected. Once he'd gotten closer, he could see that the figure was standing just under the helicopter. There was a cow lying at his feet, maybe dead, and what looked like tubes descended from the helicopter to the cow's neck.

Mulder decided that he'd seen enough. Whoever these people were, they were the ones who had been somehow behind the cattle killings, and might even be behind the Chupacabra sightings and attacks. He jumped over the fence, and jogged over to what he judged was just outside the periphery of the helicopter's lights. He steadied his grip on the Colt, aiming it at the figure, and yelled out:

"_Freeze! FBI!"_

The figure spun rapidly around, and the lights of the helicopter fell on his face.

_Rodham! Mulder observed with surprise._

Rodham Este seemed equally stunned and stared at Mulder with an expression that was mixed resignation and betrayal. Then he looked down towards the sidearm hanging next to his waist, but even as his hand began to move for it, Mulder fired.

He was unfamiliar with the Colt, and the kickback from the detonation moved the barrel skywards. Rodham stumbled backwards, his left hand going to his right shoulder. Mulder assumed he had hit, but because of the poor lighting he couldn't tell.

Rodham made another move for his revolver, and Mulder fired again, this time anticipating the kick and hitting the other man square in the chest. As soon as Rodham dropped, Mulder raced over to him. Once he'd reached the fallen cowboy's height, Mulder saw that the .45 had made quite a mess of Rodham's chest. It looked like it had exploded outwards left of the sternum.

Mulder turned his attention to the helicopter. By this time, it had begun to lift skywards, dragging the cattle along the ground. The tubes in the cow's neck popped, and it fell to the dusty desert floor with a sickeningly wet sound. Mulder, now used to his weapons' recoil, empty the remainder of the barrel into the side of the helicopter. He was unsuccessful in halting it however, and it closed its light and disappeared back into the inky night. The sound of the throbbing blades even faded away, leaving Mulder with one dead cowboy, two drugged cowboys, one dead cow, and a whole herd of extremely agitated cattle.

* * *

3:45 P.M.

Rodham's grave marker was a simple cross made from white sticks. His body hadn't been buried deep, so a cairn of rocks marked the area where his cadaver had been hidden from the desert heat. Mulder thought it was a little disrespectful, but he guessed that people in these parts didn't generally have much sympathy for cattle-killers and corporate turncoats. Brown and Bull had seemed to think it was enough, and didn't hesitate to leave shortly after. "We have a deadline to meet, after all," Brown had said.

Mulder heard the crunching of shoes behind him.

"That's his grave?" Scully asked.

"Yeah."

"I assume the family will want the body moved and given a more proper burial," she said.

"Probably, if they can afford it."

"They should. Apparently, Rodham Este had a rather impressive sum in his life insurance." Mulder figured that should have made him feel better, but for some reason it was hollow. Nor was it much of a surprise. Rodham had been a family man to the end.

"They've also refused autopsy," Scully said, "Although judging from your description it wouldn't be too hard to figure out what he died from."

Mulder didn't answered, so Scully continued:

"The first lab tests are being made on the wine bottle, but I think you're right and that it was some kind of anesthetic."

"I've never been so grateful for a hangover," Mulder said.

"Our boys from Dallas confirmed that the helicopter they found in A.P. Meats' hangar was the one you saw last night. They were able to positively identify three .45 bullet holes in its side."

"How did you know it was then anyway?"

"When you called and described what you said, I immediately made the link to a batch of criminal report files I had seen yesterday. A.P. Meats had been accused of using extortion tactics to corner the market in the past. Considering their rather shady record, its not surprising they went to such great lengths to mimic Chupacabra attacks in order to drive all the other small time herders out of business and secure a monopoly in this area."

"And the heads that they lost themselves were just to deflect attention," Mulder said.

"Right, with their increased security acting as the reason why there were no more attacks. Anyway, another report indicated confusion as to the exact location of an industrial strength vacuum cleaner. When you described to me the tubes you saw hanging from the helicopter, I though of the odd stretching marks that I saw on the specimen I autopsied. In retrospect, I think we'll find them to be caused by powerful suction."

"It would have to be powerful to drain it completely."

"It's rather obvious that few things natural could do that kind of thing. It does take a lot of strength, industrial strength, do suck a cow dry of blood and all it's other vital fluids."

Mulder nodded.

"Same thing with the lack of traces in the sand surrounding the attack victims," he said. "Something would have to be very light to leave no imprint. That, or being able to fly – like a helicopter."

"And helicopters come with the bonus of being able to make concentric circles around the area to make sure there were no traces from wind displacement – at least, none that would be visual from the ground. From an aerial view, there are probably a whole slew of little lines in the sand around the area. There have been a few complaints against unreported helicopter activity in the last two weeks or so. I'd bet the helicopter reports match perfectly with attacks by the 'Chupacabra'."

"And the actual herders never heard or saw anything because Rodham or some other A.P. Meats stooge drugged them beforehand."

"Some people would be willing to do anything for money. An entire conspiracy is being revealed here. Just from the preliminary documents found in the raid against their headquarters at Dallas, we've managed to arrest the local coroner at El Hoyo Del Polva, a banker over in Austin, and two more herder double-agents."

"He didn't do it for the money, Scully. He did it for his family." Mulder shook his head and bent down until he was at eye level with the wooden marker. "If he'd just come to us and confessed, we could have made him State's Witness, or at least gotten a reduced sentence. He didn't deserve this."

"Desperate people do desperate things, Mulder. You should know that."

"I know. It just seems so unfair. So… worthless."

"Death rarely has much value. But think of it this way, Mulder: We've actually accomplished something out here. We've seen justice be done. A.P. Meats is going to pay for what it did, and the independent merchants have been saved. After all our investigations which have ended inconclusively, doesn't it feel good to finally have concrete results?"

Mulder shrugged. Scully put her hand on his shoulder.

"I know you're a little disappointed that you didn't find your monster, Mulder. It's never easy to have something you believe in turn out to be a hoax. But it's the truth. You've pointed out to many others how ugly and betraying truth can be. You've never just been on the receiving end of that."

When Mulder didn't reply, Scully began to walk away back to the rented car. Barely a few meters away from the grave, she stopped without turning around as Mulder said:

"A.P. Meats can't be responsible for all the reported Chupacabra attacks. It's just too old and too widespread a phenomena. Someone – or something – is still out there doing this. And I intend to find the truth. No matter what it turns out to be."

Mulder heard crunching sounds behind him and knew that Scully had resumed walking back towards the car. He removed the large cowboy hat he was still wearing, and was instantly assaulted by the sun's harsh glare. With a flip of his wrist, he threw the hat down gently against the white cross, then rose and turned around to join his partner.

* * *

Contest Notes: This story was written as part of a contest directed by Jennifer Ever, a.k.a. Zero. As per the contest rules, this fic had to contain all of the following element (a dead fish, a fellow author, a black cat, an SNES, old gym socks, and a bottle of wine) as well as the lines below:

"I never knew you thought of me that way. Maybe I should go change my shorts."

"I'd never do it. Never in a million beers."

"Ah, you forget, I have a black belt."

"You're even more of a redneck than I am, and that's quite a stretch!" 

To assist my good friend Zero, here is a brief guide pertaining to the location of these elements.

Dead Fish: Rodham has fish for supper.

Fellow Author: Gene Este, a Stargate author, plays the part of Rodham's wife. This is meant as no reflection on Gene, of course. I just wanted to write something with her in it. Oh, and the Fish counts too J.

Black Cat: The motel that Mulder stays at is called "El Gato Negro", Spanish for "The Black Cat" [hence, the black cat on the motel's sign].

SNES: In Rodham's trailer, his son is playing on a Super Nintendo.

Old Gym Socks: In the opening scene, when Scully trips and falls to the floor of her room, she lies next to a pair of old gym socks.

Bottle of Wine: Rodham uses a drugged bottle of wine to knock out the other herders.

Quote 1: Rodham tells his wife this when she comes in the trailer.

Quote 2: Mulder tells Scully this shortly before passing out.

Quote 3: Bull mentions this in the conversation around the campfire.

Quote 4: Brown says this to Mulder after both are drunk and Mulder does a John Wayne impression.


End file.
